


Desert Creatures

by thegingerbatch (WendyBird)



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Companionship-starved Cobb, Complete, Din has no social intelligence and Cobb has no emotional intelligence, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 02 Finale, They share one braincell and it can't talk about feelings, Touch-Starved Din
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29140389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyBird/pseuds/thegingerbatch
Summary: For a moment, Cobb doesn’t open his eyes. He shifts, letting himself feel the length of Din’s body in his arms, breathing in the warmth of him. Stars, he doesn’t ask for much. Maybe this, maybe just for awhile, he can have.Cobb can’t pinpoint the moment Din moves from sleep into wakefulness, but he gradually becomes aware of the change in his breathing, the slight tension in his limbs.He presses his nose into Din’s hair at the nape of his neck and feels a shudder run through him.“You tell me to let go and I will,” Cobb says softly. “I won’t pretend to like it, but I will.”***Explicit chapters will be 3, 4, and 5. My writing playlist is after the last chapter, because I’m always looking for new songs that remind me of my ships and maybe you guys are too?
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 111
Kudos: 347





	1. Chapter 1

The desert is lonely by nature.

Few creatures move in packs. Too much life in any one place will tax the limited resources; it renders companionship a burden instead of a boon.

Cobb, raised on sand and suns, has known the truth of this his whole life, has seen that even in the places where civilization—or what passes for it on Tatooine—has made footholds, it’s still largely every person for themselves, every faction, every family, each one carving out what they can and defending it with their lives.

Even here, in this town he fought for and freed, he can feel the wind off the dunes hard at his heels, feel the grit of this planet caught in the back of his throat. No matter what he builds here, no matter how many he saves, he is at his heart a solitary thing, clawing for his own existence out here in the wastes.

He wishes it was different, sometimes, that a warm body on a cold night wasn’t just a rare indulgence. Some of them manage it—he sees the intimacy of what they weave together, admires it, but it feels dangerous, at once brave and foolish, and he’s never been able to reconcile the risk with the possible reward.

So loneliness is a constant friend, a low hum in the background of his life that he fails to notice mostly, ingrained as it is into the core of his being.

He’s a desert creature, after all.

§

The first time Mando shows up in his town, silver and shining like heat haze on the sands, there’s a slow unspooling tension at the base of Cobb’s spine, the instinct of one predator sizing up another.

He’s outmatched, no question—the man wears his armor like he was born in it, and maybe he was. But this death is as good as any other and better than some, so Cobb doesn’t flinch from it.

He’s saved, ironically, by the dragon. It buys him an opening to make the Mandalorian an ally instead of a rival, their brokered truce a benefit to both.

Everything in the desert is hard. Even the plants hide their soft places, live thick-skinned and thorny with their secrets buried deep. So it surprises Cobb when the killer in the cold armor turns out to have a soft underbelly, one he’s not even sure if Mando knows he’s left exposed.

It’s partly the kid. And hell, Cobb can’t fault him much for that—the kid is damned cute. Cobb isn’t sure he has much in the way of paternal instincts, but he feels plenty protective of the little guy, and he’s known him for barely a day.

But more than the obvious bond he has with the kid, Mando is...gentle. It’s in the way he drops to his knee to pet the Tuskens’ massifs, the way he speaks to the raiders in their language, his voice soft and stern as he admonishes Cobb for being rude.

And then that same man dives into the mouth of a dragon, slays it with brutal and spectacular skill, and before Cobb can quite decide what to make of him, he’s gone again.

“I hope our paths cross again,” he says in farewell, and he isn’t just making nice. 

Mando clasps his arm. “As do I,” he says. Cobb’s fingers on his arm slide over fabric and flesh, Cobb’s thumb curls over the unyielding vambrace, the whole dichotomy of him there under Cobb’s hand.

For weeks after, Cobb dreams about him, about the silver shell of him, about the vulnerable thing underneath.

On those nights, the creeping loneliness of the desert makes him shiver, and Cobb thinks for the first time that he might like to be something other than what he is, something that knows how to be protector and protected all at once, something not afraid to show its soft places to the suns.

§

The second time Mando blows into town, he is dust-covered and tired. Cobb can see it in the droop of his shoulders and the cant of his hip as he shifts his weight.

“Wasn’t rightly sure you’d be back,” Cobb says.

The helmet gives away so little, but Cobb thinks the slight downward tilt is...shame? Grief? Something in between?

“Just passing through,” says Mando. “Thought I might stay a few days.”

Cobb notes the absence of the child, but he doesn’t ask. Not yet. He can hear the raw edge in Mando’s voice.

“Sure. Stay as long as you need. We don’t got much in the way of extra rooms, but I’ve got extra blankets and a clean place on the floor if you’re not picky.”

And that’s how he finds himself here, with Mando in his sitting room, staring absently at his gloved hands as Cobb pours himself a glass of spotchka and tosses it back.

He sets the bottle on the table, and Mando looks at it, the faint glow of the liquor reflecting in his helmet.

“You want to talk about it?” Cobb says.

Mando is still for a moment, head cocked slightly to one side. “I don’t know,” he finally says.

“Mm.” Cobb pours himself another glass, then sets the bottle down again. “Tell me about the kid,” he says softly. 

Mando continues to look only at the liquor bottle. “Is that any good?” he asks, ignoring Cobb.

“Spotchka?” Cobb laughs a little. “It’s alright. A sight better than those black melons.”

“May I?” Mando asks. 

“‘Course.” Cobb stands, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “You want me to leave you—”

But the rest of the question dies in his throat as Mando reaches up and lifts his helmet off. He does it so easy, so quick, that for a moment Cobb thinks he’s imagining it. Surely that tumble of hair, those big soft eyes, surely that isn’t the dragon killer, the one who nearly shot him at the sight of his own discarded Mando helmet.

No, his mind whispers. That’s the other one. The one who cradled his kid in his arms and made Cobb mind his manners.

“Kriff.” His tongue feels numb in his mouth, the word falling from his lips clumsily into the heavy silence of the room.

Mando looks at him then, and Cobb isn’t prepared for the wave of sympathy that washes over him. The man isn’t crying, but his eyes are damp and bewildered. He looks lost.

Cobb nudges the bottle again, and this time Mando picks it up awkwardly by the neck, raises it to his lips, and takes a drink. He squeezes his eyes shut when he swallows, coughs a little.

“You look like you need it,” Cobb says, and it earns him another glance, this one a bit more sharp. Mando takes another sip.

“A lot has happened,” he says.

“I can see that.”

“He’s not dead.” 

Cobb blinks at this apparent non-sequitur, then realizes Mando is answering his earlier question about the kid. “Well, that’s...that’s good. The state of you, I wondered...”

“He’s with his kind now.”

“Ah. That’s—”

“For the best,” Mando interrupts. 

“Maybe,” Cobb says. “Don’t mean you’re not allowed to miss him.”

Mando looks at the bottle. Drinks again. 

“You want to tell me what changed? With your helmet, I mean?”

A shrug. “I broke my Creed.”

“Not sure I like how casual you say that.”

“Not casual. Just factual.”

Cobb moves to sit beside him. “Why did you break it?”

“The child. I wanted—” He sighs. “I’d already compromised so many times it felt like a lie. In the end, I wanted him to see me. To remember me like that. Like this.” He gestures to his face.

“Like a wreck, you mean?” Cobb quips, and he’s rewarded with the slightest twitch of Mando’s lips. 

The twist turns quickly bitter, however. “It was selfish,” Mando says. “I put my needs over my oath.”

Cobb leans forward, elbows on his knees, and takes another sip of his drink. “I’m not a wise man, Mando.”

The man makes a scoffing little noise deep in his throat. Cobb allows himself a smile. “But I’ll tell you what I think all the same. It’s never selfish, letting someone see you. Really see you. Scary, maybe. Even dangerous. But not selfish.”

Mando stares at the bottle for a long time, swirling the liquor within, watching the play of light across its surface. 

Before he fully knows what he’s doing, Cobb reaches out, grasping Mando’s knee just above the knee pad and below the thigh guard, squeezing briefly.

Mando starts a little at the touch, turns his gaze to Cobb’s hand, but doesn’t flinch away. Cobb laughs, a little self-consciously, and uses the hand on Mando’s leg to lever himself to his feet.

“Past time for me to be asleep,” he says apologetically. 

Mando’s eyes are dark when he looks at Cobb, his head tilted in a way that Cobb recognizes, although it’s different now, without the helmet—somehow both more and less intense.

“Get some rest, Mando.” Cobb finishes his drink, sets the empty glass on the table. He doesn’t really want to leave, but that’s all the more reason to retreat. There’s just enough liquor in his system to give him the courage to do something stupid.

He can feel Mando’s eyes on him as he leaves, following him until he closes his bedroom door and leans against it, making himself breathe deep.

His hand burns where it rested against Mando’s thigh, and he flexes it, ignoring the dark, curious thing that shifts in his belly.

§


	2. Chapter 2

The next day is hot and still. Cobb stands on the outskirts of town, scanning the horizon.

“Storm coming,” he says.

“How can you tell?” Mando stands beside him, helmeted now. Broken oath or not, he still shows his face only when he and Cobb are alone. Cobb can’t decide if this is a compliment, or if he is somehow making Cobb complicit in his alleged blasphemy.

“No wind,” Cobb says. “Like the whole desert is holding its breath.”

“How long before it’s here?”

“Maybe a day. Maybe less.” Cobb glances at him. “Sometimes they don’t blow out for days. You in a hurry to get back to port?”

Mando looks out at the vast sprawl of the dunes. “No.” 

“Alright then,” Cobb says. “You can help me batten down the town, then.”

§

A group of Tuskens arrives in the afternoon, bringing water to trade for food and fuel. A widow from the town leads the trade for Mos Pelgo—a stern but fair sort called Ona, whose late husband ran supplies for the town and who has a head for business and a diplomatic tone.

Cobb, shadowed by Mando, helps oversee the exchange—the peace between them has become easier, but Cobb is keenly aware that one hot temper might be enough to undo their fragile gains. He can’t do much about the Tuskens, but he can try to keep his own people in check. At least Ona isn’t prone to outbursts, but Cobb has seen her put a hole through a womp rat at over a hundred paces with that rifle of hers. He’s not taking chances.

The enunciations of the Tuskens’ language are beyond him, but Cobb has learned one or two of their signs, and in turn they seem to understand more of his Basic than before. 

The trade completed, Cobb makes what he thinks is the sign for gratitude. A few of the Tuskens mutter to themselves in what Cobb can only interpret as an amused manner.

Mando reaches over, takes Cobb’s hand, and adjusts his fingers—putting his pointer finger down and raising his thumb instead. 

“Start from here,” Mando says, and makes the gesture, beginning at his chin and pulling it forward. “That’s ‘thank you.’”

Cobb, coloring a little, repeats the motion. This time, the Tuskens repeat it back to him.

“So what did I say?”

Mando cocks his head to one side. “It wasn’t exact, but something about their mothers lying down with rontos.”

Ona snorts and judiciously looks away. Cobb curses under his breath, his flush deepening. 

The Tuskens sign rapidly to Mando, and he signs back.

“Now what?”

“They’re annoyed that I ruined their joke. Apparently your signs are entertaining to them. They say you speak like a child.”

“Well, they speak like the hind end of a bantha,” Cobb grouses.

Mando studies him, inscrutable behind his helmet. “Do you want me to translate that?” 

Cobb glares at him and makes his incorrect sign again, this time directed at Mando. The Tuskens nearly fall over themselves laughing as Cobb walks away.

§

The first stars are out over Mos Pelgo as they finish the preparations for the storm: securing the bantha pens, sealing the windows of the buildings, making sure the storm vents on the houses are in good repair, their filters cleared of any sand from the last storm.

Cobb is properly tired by the time they make it back to his house, and hungry besides. He rehydrates some rations for them, and they eat together. 

Mando pours himself a glass of spotchka, and after a moment’s consideration, Cobb joins him. Mando is halfway through his first glass before Cobb has taken a drink.

“You want to go easy on it,” Cobb says, gesturing to the bottle. “It takes the edge off, no doubt about it, but it won’t solve anything.”

Mando seems to think about this, and though he continues to sip at his glass, he does so a little more slowly than before.

“Is it just the kid?” Cobb asks, and Mando casts a wary look at him.

Cobb puts his hands up. “I don’t mean to pry. The kid would be enough, if I’m honest. I know you were like a daddy to him, and you’d be a piss-poor daddy if you didn’t miss your kid.”

“I do. Miss him.” Mando’s words are halting, like each one is an effort. “But no, it’s not just him.”

“The Creed, then?”

“The Creed is who I am. Or,” he sighs, “who I thought I was. It was what made me Mandalorian.”

Cobb takes a sip of his drink. “You’re still here, though. Still you, as far as I can tell, even if you’re a little worse for wear.”

“I met others. Other Mandalorians, with a different Creed.” He looks at the table between his still-gloved hands. “I was taught that there is only one way. Now...maybe there are other ways. But I don’t know how to walk them.”

“You know,” Cobb leans forward now, elbows on his legs, hovering closer to Mando, “I’ve never had a creed. Not a capital C Creed anyway. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, but mostly...well, mostly I made the choices I thought I could live with.

“Plenty of folk—bad folk—have come to this town to take what they want from it. Before you came, Tuskens took supplies, banthas. Bandits took water and credits. Even the krayt took from us, our livestock, our townsfolk. Only thing any of them gave back was blood on the sand, a mess to clean up.

“Then you roll into town wanting my armor.” Cobb gestures with his glass in a mock little toast. “Could’ve killed me and taken it, and I don’t reckon you’d have had to break much of a sweat. Instead, you slew a damn dragon. And if that ain’t enough, you ended a feud that had nearly ruined us, gave this whole town back its life, and the Tuskens too.”

He finishes off his drink, grunting a little at the afterburn. “I don’t know a lot about your capital C Creed, Mando. But I think you got a creed deeper than that, and I don’t think it needs any fixin’.”

For a long time, Mando says nothing. Cobb, still leaning close to him, begins to feel awkward and invasive. He shifts, moving back a little, and Mando blinks. One gloved hand twitches abortively toward him. Cobb stops moving.

“Din,” Mando says at last.

Cobb’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Sorry?” 

“My name.” That minuscule smile tugs at the corner of Mando’s mouth. “It’s Din.”

“Din. Alright then.”

Cobb pours them another round.

§

The spotchka settles in Cobb’s belly, burns low and warm and pleasant like the last of the day’s warmth still trapped in the walls. 

Din lays out his equipment on the floor of Cobb’s sitting room and goes over each item, performing a meticulous maintenance routine that Cobb watches lazily from where he is sprawled across a cushioned bench.

Din breaks his blaster down carefully, inspecting and cleaning each piece. His unkempt hair tumbles into his eyes as he works, and he is forever pushing it back with the heel of his hand.

“Don’t suppose you waste a lot of time on hair cuts when you live your whole life behind a helmet,” Cobb chuckles, and the sound is a little bleary around the edges.

Din shrugs and begins to piece the blaster back together. “I cut it myself, when it gets it the way.”

“And now?” Cobb snorts as it falls across Din’s eyes again. “Seems in the way to me.”

A brief frown in his direction as Din slides the last piece of the blaster into place and sets the weapon aside. “Is it bothering you?”

“Just making conversation, Mando. I’ll tell you what. I’ll cut it for you, if you promise to teach me a few more of those Tusken signs. Help me not make a fool of myself again.”

“They appreciate the effort.”

“Probably appreciate it more if I wasn’t insulting their mothers. I know my ego would appreciate it.”

A flicker of a smile, there and gone. “Okay.”

Cobb sits up on his bench, swaying a little as his brain recalibrates itself to this new position.

“Maybe not tonight,” Din says, eyeing him up and down. “Not sure I want you holding something sharp near my head in your state.”

“Oh come on. No sense of adventure?” 

Din ignores him and begins unbuckling his shin guards. He removes them, sets them to one side, and then continues working his way upward, creating a growing pile of beskar on the floor beside him.

Cobb, made bold by alcohol and exhaustion, stares. It shouldn’t be enticing—Din is fully clothed beneath the armor, wearing padding and a flight suit and his cape and cowl besides. But the ritual of it, slow and methodical, feels unspeakably intimate, and this time Cobb makes little effort to clamp down on the coiling heat in his gut.

Din sees him watching, and he pauses, coloring a little. Cobb meets his eyes, allowing himself a little grin. “Don’t stop on my account,” he says, teasing.

Slowly, Din resumes his task, still casting measuring glances at Cobb. He removes his vambraces now, and his pauldrons. When he tries to undo the clasp on his breastplate, it catches, and he crooks his arm awkwardly as he tries to free it.

“Let me,” Cobb says, and kneels beside him. For a moment, Din continues to struggle with it, wariness in his eyes at having Cobb so close, but Cobb sits on his heels, hands open.

“What do you think I’m gonna do, steal it?” Cobb laughs softly. “Let me help.”

Din drops his hand slowly. Cobb, careful now, lets his fingers ghost along his side, fluttering over the folds of his flightsuit, finding the armor clasp where it’s caught on a bit of padding. He lets one finger slip underneath the padding, feels Din’s sharp inhale as it brushes over his ribs through the fabric. He glances at the man’s face, sees his eyes close briefly, like he’s steadying himself. 

Cobb tugs at the pad, gently freeing it from the clasp, which then falls open easily. Still moving cautiously, he reaches for the other clasp, and Din doesn’t fight him, lifting his arm so Cobb can undo it. When it hangs loose from his neck, Din helps him lift it over his head, and Cobb places it beside the rest of his armor. 

They sit, knees nearly touching, and though Din still looks vaguely startled, he does not move.

“Why did you come here?” Cobb asks. 

“I told you, I needed—”

“I mean,” Cobb interrupts, “why _here_?”

Din says nothing. 

“Maybe even you don’t know.” Cobb lets one finger run over the edge of the beskar breastplate. “But maybe I do.” He moves his finger, tracing the places where the beskar meets the padding, thinking about the first time he shook Mando’s hand. Din is watching, tracking the movement of Cobb’s hand with his eyes.

“I have a friend here,” Din says simply, but the nervous shifting of his eyes looks guilty.

“Yes you do,” Cobb agrees. He reaches out, smooths the fabric of Din’s flightsuit where it’s rumpled from his armor. He can feel the warmth of his skin through the suit, the firm muscle of his chest, and Cobb’s mouth goes a little dry.

Din breathes in again, too shallow. “What do you want me to say?” His voice sounds strained.

Cobb doesn’t answer, distracted, reluctant to stop touching. He knows if he doesn’t stop soon he’s going to fall headlong into the dark flame licking at his insides. Which maybe wouldn’t be so bad—maybe would be sort of fucking wonderful—except that somehow, stripped of his helmet, Din is harder to read than ever.

“What do you _want_ , Cobb?” Din asks again, and there’s a panicked edge to it that makes Cobb lose his nerve. 

He pulls his hand back, studies Din’s face, and there’s sadness in his soft laughter. “More than I can have, usually,” he says, and he makes himself stand up. 

He looks down at Din, and damn it if those dark eyes don’t look sorry to him go. But then, his mind has played tricks on him before. Like the hallucinations brought on by too much sun and too little water, bodies craving something start to see it everywhere.

“Goodnight, Din.”

He goes to bed.

§

He wakes in the middle of the night. Din stands beside his bed in the dark. He wears only his flightsuit, undone at the neck now. His feet are bare.

He says nothing, and part of Cobb’s brain is convinced this is a dream, brought on by the drink, by the shape of a desire he can still hardly bear to look at directly.

Cobb sits up slightly, a question on his lips, but he can feel Din’s eyes on him in the dark, and suddenly he doesn’t much care to ask questions at all. He moves to one side of the bed, raises the quilt in an invitation. Din stays standing for a moment—and then he doesn’t so much lie down as crumble into the bed, folding in on himself, turning his back to Cobb and pushing himself close.

Cobb’s body accommodates him, curves along the length of his back. When he drops the quilt, he lets his arm fall as well, draped over Din’s side. He’s hot beneath his flightsuit; Cobb can feel him through the fabric, solid and almost feverish. 

He doesn’t make a sound, but Cobb soothes him anyway, lays his palm flat over the man’s chest, moves it in slow, steadying strokes. He can feel the rise and fall as Din breathes, and it’s so _human_ —he doesn’t mean to, doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but his hand slips into the flightsuit, seeking bare skin under his fingers. He presses his forehead into Din’s shoulder.

There is a hitch in the man’s breathing when Cobb touches him, skin to skin. It pulls Cobb up short, brings him back to full awareness, but before he can pull his hand back, Din releases the breath, slow and soft. 

Cobb lays there, holding him, feeling him relax slowly against him. He doesn’t sleep again until he’s certain Din has dropped off as well, his breathing even now, a hint of a snore on the inhale, his limbs twitching faintly under the blankets as he dreams.

Outside, a warm wind stirs on the horizon, loose sand skittering over the dunes with a hiss and a sigh.

§

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intentionally did not make the Tusken sign identical to ASL, but the correlation between "fuck you" and "thank you" in ASL was too good not to exploit somehow.


	3. Chapter 3

Cobb wakes slowly. Even before he opens his eyes, he can sense the quality of the light in the room that means the storm is here, hear the constant slough of sand where it’s driven against the sides of his home. 

Din stirs against him.

For a moment, Cobb doesn’t open his eyes. He shifts, letting himself feel the length of Din’s body in his arms, breathing in the warmth of him. Stars, he doesn’t ask for much. Maybe this, maybe just for awhile, he can have.

Cobb can’t pinpoint the moment Din moves from sleep into wakefulness, but he gradually becomes aware of the change in his breathing, the slight tension in his limbs.

He presses his nose into Din’s hair at the nape of his neck and feels a shudder run through him. 

“You tell me to let go and I will,” Cobb says softly. “I won’t pretend to like it, but I will.”

“No.” Din’s voice is gravel rough and whisper quiet. “Please.”

He smiles against Din’s skin. “Roll over here.”

And slowly, Din does. He moves like he is fighting himself, and when he finally settles, Cobb can see that familiar wariness in his eyes. Finally, though, Cobb thinks he understands it.

“How long? Since anyone touched you?”

Din swallows. He looks at Cobb’s mouth, at his eyes, and back again. “A long time.”

Cobb lets his hand come up to Din’s jaw, brushes the back of his knuckles over the scruff there. “It goes as far as you say it goes. Ends when you say it ends, hear?”

Din nods, just once.

“I’m gonna touch you now, if that’s alright with you.”

Something else flashes across Din’s eyes, something like a plea, and Cobb smiles again. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Cobb opens his hand, his fingers spread over Din’s throat. He leans into him, lets their lips touch—not kissing him, not really, just letting him acclimate. Din breathes haltingly, like he keeps forgetting how, and Cobb lets his fingers drift down across his chest, his side, his arm. He is smaller now, without all that beskar in the way, but he is still hard muscle under that shivering skin, and Cobb makes a low, appreciative noise in his throat.

Din closes his eyes, and Cobb notes that some of the tension has leeched from him. “Good,” Cobb says, his mouth still against Din’s. Din twitches in his arms a little, pushes forward almost imperceptibly, bringing their lips fully together.

Cobb smiles into the kiss, lets him have it, soft and sweet and easy. It isn’t especially graceful, but there’s a charm in the clumsiness that makes Cobb want to both shelter him and shatter him.

He grasps at Din’s hip, lets his thumb follow the crease between his torso and leg, and Din breaks the kiss, panting.

“Still okay?”

Another nod, Din pressing his forehead against Cobb’s. Cobb flattens his palm, adjusts his reach, and _there_ —Din makes a strangled sort of sound as the heel of Cobb’s hand brushes against him, and he’s half hard and hot and _hell_ , Cobb has to breath out slow through his nose to suppress the shiver of want that slips down his spine.

He grinds his palm down, swallowing the gasp that escapes from Din. He lets him move like this for a bit, just rutting against Cobb’s hand, Cobb’s fingers occasionally tracing the shape of him through the flightsuit, until he’s loose-limbed and eager. 

When Cobb releases him, Din gives a soft moan of disapproval, but Cobb only kisses him again, bringing his hands up to the collar of the flightsuit. 

“Get this off,” he says, and tugs at the collar so the suit pulls tight across the back of Din’s neck. “Let me see you.”

Din obeys. It’s the second time he’s done this, followed direction from Cobb without a word, and oh, that dark thing at the core of him is _interested_ in seeing where that goes. Din shrugs the suit off his shoulders, rolls it down to his hips, and Cobb helps him along until yes, _there_ , he can get his hands on him properly.

It’s both relieved and overwhelmed, the moan that slips from Din’s mouth, and Cobb takes him in a loose fist, stroking slowly. Din is already leaking. Cobb swipes a thumb through it, making Din jump.

“Easy,” he mutters. “I’ll make it good for you.” He raises his hand to Din’s mouth, hooks two fingers between his lips, and Din sucks them without being asked. Cobb has to bite back a curse at the sight of it, has to reach down with his other hand and squeeze himself through his smalls to stop himself from ending this right now.

He slips a third finger in, curling them against Din’s tongue, lost in the feeling of it for a moment. “Hell, Mando, your _mouth_.” He pulls his fingers free, taking a moment to appreciate the spit-slick shine of Din’s lips, his chin, and then he’s kissing him again, tasting that tongue with his own. He forgets to be gentle, lets one hand slip into Din’s hair and pull, and the noise Din makes at that is delicious, high and needy.

Cobb lets him go, spits on his palm indelicately, and reaches back down to grab Din’s cock. “You touch yourself like this?” he asks, and Din blinks at him. “Go on,” Cobb says. “Show me. Show me how.” 

Din’s eyes are so impossibly dark, his lashes lowered, spots of color flaring in his cheeks from embarrassment or lust or both. He wraps one hand around Cobb’s, adjusts the pressure so Cobb is holding him a little tighter. “Show me,” Cobb repeats, and he looks down at where their hands are joined, at the flushed purple head of Din’s cock caught between their fingers. 

Din’s hand moves, awkwardly at first, using their interlaced hands to stroke himself. As he gets used to the feeling, his strokes become more confident, loose at the base, tighter at the head, a twist of his wrist—Cobb follows his movements, replicates them, until Din lets go, unable to keep his focus under the onslaught. Cobb strokes him faster now, presses his lips to the pulse point in Din’s neck and sucks, feels Din writhe against him.

He can feel his own erection, neglected and crying out for attention, but he’s too caught up in this, in the noises falling from Din’s parted lips, in the taste of his skin, in the weight of him in his hand, pulsing now, getting closer. 

_What do you want?_ Din had asked the night before.

 _This. Everything. More than I knew. More than I should._

“Fuck. Come here.” He sits up, tugs Din into his lap, Din’s back against his chest. The flightsuit is still awkwardly caught around the man’s legs, but Cobb doesn’t care. One of his hands spreads flat over Din’s chest, the other flying over his cock now. He sets his teeth against the muscle of Din’s shoulder, and he can’t help the way his hips buck up against Din’s weight. “Look at you,” he says—he can’t shut up, like Din’s silence demands to be filled—“Hell if you aren’t the prettiest thing I’ve seen. Maybe next time you ride me like this—“ he thrusts up hard, and Din moans “—Bet you’d like that. Bet you’d be _perfect_...”

Din’s breath catches, his hips stutter, and then he’s coming, spending over Cobb’s hand, over his own stomach. Cobb works him through it, mouthing messy kisses to his neck, until Din is limp in his arms, sweat-damp and exhausted.

He lets him sag down to the mattress where he can lean over him, taking himself in hand. 

“Let me—” Din says, and reaches for him weakly.

“Ain’t gonna take long, sweetheart,” he says, and kisses him hard. It’s too rough, rougher than he means to be, but he’s _close_ now. Din can’t get a good grasp around his hand, but the way he’s trying is enough, it pushes Cobb right to the edge and then _over_ —he bites down on Din’s lip as he comes, one leg trembling a little, adding to the mess on Din’s stomach. 

Cobb collapses back onto the mattress. The room is suddenly quiet except for their breathing, echoed by the shifting winds outside. Against his shoulder, Din moves, raising his head to look down at himself, and Cobb sees him shiver a little as he lets out a long breath through his nose.

“Forgive my manners,” Cobb says, still panting. “I got none.” He smiles, leaning over Din to collect a discarded shirt from the floor, then carefully wiping them both down. Din twitches again as Cobb cleans him, and stars, if he was maybe fifteen years younger, Cobb would be entertaining serious thoughts about going another round. The sight of him, peeled out of his armor, all those soft places exposed, makes Cobb want to eat him alive.

But he can’t help but wonder, now his head’s clearing a little, if this is something Din intends to repeat, or if—having scratched the itch—he will retreat into himself again.

Din is watching him. Cobb tosses the shirt back to the floor, sits back, and meets his gaze. 

“Still good?” he asks, and there’s more trepidation in it than he would like, certainly more than he intended. Cobb has never been much of a gambler—his mouth gives away every secret he’s ever tried to keep.

“Yeah,” Din says at last, and looks away from Cobb, staring up at the ceiling instead. 

Cobb continues to stare at him for a moment, not sure how to read this. Little pinpricks of disappointment blossom in his chest, even though he doesn’t know what answer he might have preferred. He clamps down on them.

Whatever this is, whatever Din needs, he can be it. It’s not like he hasn’t been a means to an end before, and hell, it’s not exactly a difficult job. And anyway, what else would it be? Cobb is the two-bit Marshal of a tiny town that always seems a heartbeat away from getting swallowed by the wastes. He’s tied to this planet, to his people, to the whole damn desert. What’s even here for Din, beyond an easy fuck and a few days of rest?

So he can be that—sure he can. Attachments are messy, anyway. He lets his loneliness wrap itself around him, summons up his easy smile, and goes to make them breakfast.

§


	4. Chapter 4

“What do you do all day when it storms like this?”

Cobb looks up from his food, sees Din staring at the storm vent, where a few grains of sand have managed to work their way around the filter. They cling to the back of it, vibrating almost imperceptibly as the wind pushes against the vent from outside.

He shrugs. “Maintenance around the house, sometimes. I got a few holovids around here, one or two books even. Whatever passes the time.” He studies Din, who is glancing around the room now. “What do you do? When you have to kill time, I mean?”

“The same, I guess. The _Crest_ always had something that needed fixing or calibrating or rebuilding.”

“Had?”

“Moff Gideon blew it up.”

Cobb stops chewing, sets his fork down. He spreads his hands in a mock invitation. “You got anything else you want to unload on me? 'Cause I’ll be honest, Mando, this abridged version of your story has a lot of holes in it, and I’m like to step into one of ‘em sooner or later.”

To his credit, Din looks chagrined. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t know where to start.”

Cobb picks up his cup of caf. “I’m not saying you have to start anywhere. Just saying I’d prefer to get all the highlights out in the open, not get bowled over every time you spring a new one on me.”

Din smiles, that little barely-there flicker. “Sorry.”

“Think about it. Take your time.” Cobb sips his caf and looks up at the vent, where a gust of wind sends a few loose grains of sand pattering down to the stone floor. “I’m not going anywhere.”

§

Eventually, Din begins to talk. He talks about Corvus, about the Jedi and learning the child’s name. He talks about losing the kid, about rescuing him again, about Skywalker—he moves through this briefly, and when Cobb hears the rasp to his voice, he looks politely away until he’s sure Din’s recovered himself.

When he looks back, Din has retrieved something from his belt and laid it on the table. It’s a hilt of some kind, sleek and black. 

Cobb raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

“What,” Cobb says, “the hell is that?”

In answer, Din picks it up, holds the hilt out before him, and then there is an ominous thrum to the air and a blade extends before Din’s face. Cobb draws away from it instinctively, his legs getting caught up under the table and nearly tipping him from his chair.

Din looks at him over the blade, and the black energy of it casts cold shadows over his face. “Gideon was carrying this. The other Mandalorians I met called it the darksaber.”

“That is...accurate.” It hurts Cobb’s head to look at it, the sinuous threat of it humming between them, but he can’t tear his eyes away.

The blade snicks away, leaving a burning afterimage swimming in Cobb’s vision.

“It’s the symbol of the throne of Mandalore,” Din says.

“And these other Mandalorians, they gave it to you?”

“It can’t be given, only won in combat. And I defeated Gideon.”

Cobb rubs at his eyes, beginning to laugh as he pieces this together. “So, you...accidentally became king of your planet?”

Din frowns at him. “It’s not really _my_ planet.”

“Should I bow?” 

“Shut up,” Din says, and clips the darksaber back to his belt. 

“Kings ought to be better groomed,” Cobb grins, and leans forward to flick Din’s hair from his face. “You still want that hair cut, Your Majesty?”

Din starts a little at the touch, but he reaches up to feel the disarray of his hair and shrugs. “If you have the time,” he says.

Cobb gives a short bark of laughter, and Din smiles—still furtive, but warm. 

“I can rearrange a few things, I suppose,” Cobb says.

§

It’s more difficult than Cobb expected. 

Mos Pelgo hasn’t managed to produce a steady barber yet, so Cobb has been managing his own grooming for months, but this is the first time he’s tried on someone else, and the movements are unfamiliar to him.

“Damn it,” he says for the fifth time, adjusting his grip on the scissors.

Din looks up at him mildly. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“It’s fine. And anyway, what do you care?” Cobb says grumpily. “It’ll stay out of your eyes, at least.” He lets his fingers comb through Din’s hair, eying the length, evening it out carefully. He is most definitely _not_ thinking about the feel of it in his hands.

Din’s head turns slightly, his chair creaking as he tries to see what Cobb is doing. “I can do it myself if—”

Cobb tightens his grip, tipping Din’s head back to look at him, and the words die in Din’s throat. “Keep. Still,” Cobb says. He points Din’s face forward again, laying the scissors down and picking up his clippers.

His fingers press against Din’s scalp, holding him in place as he cleans up the stray hairs at the nape of his neck. He swipes a thumb down, sweeping shorn hairs away, and Din shivers a little.

Cobb finishes his work and steps back, turning the clippers off. The end result is better than he thought it would be—maybe a few spots sticking out strangely, but he can’t help the fact that Din has apparently never made any effort to control his hair. He smooths one unruly tuft. 

“Well?” Din asks.

“Don’t worry, Mando,” Cobb says and brushes a few more short hairs away from the skin behind Din’s ears. “You’re still pretty.”

A snort from Din, but he’s strangely still under Cobb’s hands now. When Cobb’s knuckles brush the shell of his ear, he leans into the touch, following it like a blind massif pup tracking a scent.

Okay. So maybe Din’s itch isn’t _quite_ scratched.

Cobb laughs softly and lets both hands card through Din’s hair, because he wants to and because Din’s responsiveness to touch is intoxicating to indulge. 

“Huh.” Cobb’s fingers slide down to Din’s neck, tickling through the newly shorn hair there, and Cobb can see a muscle jump in Din’s jaw as it clenches. “I didn’t know any better, I’d say you liked that.”

He moves around the chair, one hand trailing along the side of Din’s neck until it lays flat against his throat, thumb resting against his chin. 

Din looks up at him. “Yes,” he says.

Cobb gently runs his thumb up to Din’s bottom lip, lets it trace the line of his mouth, and Din’s lips part at the touch.

 _Kriff_ , Cobb thinks. He’s in so much trouble. 

“If you want something,” he says out loud, “you have to ask.”

A slow blink from Din. “Please.” His lips move against Cobb’s thumb.

Cobb can’t help it—he lets the thumb dip briefly between those lips, just enough to feel the soft warmth of his mouth. Then he pulls it out again, runs the slight damp of it over Din’s chin. 

He shakes his head. “No. You have to say it.”

“Cobb…”

“Now _that_ is nice, my name in your mouth like that.” Cobb steps closer, forcing Din’s head back so he can look him in the eye. “But not enough. I got a stake in this, too, Mando. Tell me what you want.”

“It’s Din.” Cobb raises an eyebrow at the undercurrent of frustration in Din’s voice. “You keep saying Mando. My name is Din.”

Cobb laughs, his fingers flexing a little against Din’s throat. “Habit,” he says, and if there’s a little steel behind his grin, he isn’t sorry. “Like the way you won’t say anything unless I force it. So how about I work on my habit, _Din_. And you tell me what you want here.”

“I want…” Din takes a breath, swallows, his eyes fixed somewhere around Cobb’s mouth. Cobb licks his lips, watches him track the movement. Din lifts his hands to Cobb’s hips, swaying him a little closer. “Want you,” he says, and leans his head forward against Cobb’s belly.

A spasm of lust makes Cobb grip his head, hold him there a moment, but he pushes him back with the hand at Din’s throat. “No. No, sweetheart, you have to _say it_.”

“Please don’t—”

“If you don’t say it, you’re gonna make me beg for it, and believe it or not, I have some pride.” Cobb leans over him, his lips moving against Din’s forehead. “I won’t keep guessing what’s going on in that head of yours. Now tell me.”

Din closes his eyes. “I want you to kiss me,” he says, soft and low.

Cobb has to laugh. “That all?” His breath ghosts along Din’s brow.

“I want to suck you.”

For a heartbeat, Cobb forgets to breathe, his fingers tightening on Din's neck until Din hisses. Cobb's pulse pounds in his ears. 

“ _Fuck_.” He kisses Din roughly. He licks into his mouth, possessive and hungry. “You are _something_.”

Din, a little breathless, tugs Cobb even closer. “Something good?”

Cobb stands upright, looks down at him—all hard lines and soft eyes, dangerous and fragile at once. “Something damn incredible,” he says, and means it.

Din’s fingers crawl under the hem of Cobb’s shirt, seeking his skin. He presses his face into the fabric, breathing deep, and Cobb’s hips thrust forward of their own accord. He bites back a moan.

Blunt fingers find his trouser buttons, release them, and Cobb has to grip Din’s shoulders to stay upright when he reaches down to take Cobb’s cock in his hand.

He pauses then, holding him like that, and glances up.

And there’s another piece of his puzzle clicked into place, as Cobb suddenly understands this hesitation. “You ever do this before?” he asks, his touch feather-light on Din’s cheek. 

“Not this,” Din says, and colors slightly. 

“You don’t have to—”

“No. Want to.” 

Cobb’s cock pulses at that, and Din’s hand shifts on him, feeling it. “Don’t know if you can tell,” Cobb says breathlessly, “but you’re not exactly putting me off.”

This draws a warm huff of a laugh from Din, and he gives Cobb two slow strokes. When he traces Cobb’s length with his tongue, Cobb fists a hand in his hair, and Din doesn’t waste time then. 

When Cobb feels his mouth close around him, he groans. There’s no art to it, but there’s something else, something like curiosity as Din explores him, lets his mouth adjust to the feel of him, lets his tongue taste and tease and test. It’s not enough for satisfaction, but damn if it doesn’t drive him crazy, and an almost endless string of curses clouds the air around him as he tries not to claw at Din’s scalp.

Then Din takes him deeper, and the uncouth part of Cobb takes the reins long enough to buck up desperately into that heat and wet. Din gags, coughs, pulls off to breathe.

“Sorry,” Cobb says, cursing himself now. His fingers are at Din’s cheek. “Sorry. Always been a little too eager.”

A quick glance up and down at him, and then Din moves, standing from his chair and driving Cobb backward all at once. Cobb hardly has time to recognize what’s happening before he’s pressed against the stone wall, pinned by the three-point harness of Din’s fists in his shirt, his hips flush against Cobb’s. Cobb can feel the strength of him in that grip, and he ricochets somewhere between embarrassment at being so easily manhandled and a powerful, knee-trembling desire for Din to do it again.

“Keep still,” Din says, and smiles his vanishing smile.

He folds down to his knees, taking Cobb in his mouth again, his hands on Cobb’s hips to hold them down. He’s more sure of himself now, his head finding a rhythm, one of his hands joining in. 

Cobb’s head falls back against the wall with a dull thump. He still can’t say it’s the best blowjob he’s ever had, but damn if it doesn’t somehow _feel_ the best, damn if he wouldn’t trade every other one before it to experience this one again and again.

He glances around the room, trying to focus on anything else, thinking about how this is one more room in his house that will always be a room he fucked Din in, now. 

Hell. Trouble is too nice a word for what he’s in. 

Din sinks down again, holds for a minute, and Cobb’s thoughts flatline as he struggles against Din’s hand at his hip, against the instinct to drive himself deeper. 

When Din pulls off, he looks pleased with himself, and a wave of something too much like affection makes Cobb pull him to his feet, kiss him, taste himself on Din’s tongue. 

Cobb reaches a hand between them and finds Din fully hard beneath his suit. 

“You,” Cobb says. “What can I do to you?”

“Anything.” Din’s reply is immediate and overwhelming. 

Cobb smiles against his lips. “Oh, sweetheart. Not sure you want to give me that much leeway.”

Din pulls back enough to meet his eyes. “Anything,” he repeats.

Cobb kisses him again, and he doesn’t mean to make it tender, he _doesn’t_ , but he knows it’s too soft and too slow to be mistaken for anything except what it is—an admission, a submission to whatever this is and the speed at which it’s taking him over.

Din breaks the kiss, one of his hands gripping the back of Cobb’s head, tilting their foreheads together. He stands like this, eyes closed, lips pressed into a flat line, like he’s fighting something back. Cobb can’t read this, doesn’t know what it means, but it feels weighted, important.

“Okay?” Cobb asks, and Din nods.

“Good.” Cobb flexes his fingers, rubbing Din through the suit, making his breath hitch. “Because I’m not finished with you.”

§

In the end, Din sucks him again, and Cobb makes a mess of him, coming over his face and neck. Cobb runs his fingers through it, sticks them in Din’s mouth for him to lick clean, and Din doesn’t hesitate. 

Cobb pushes him away, guides him back to the chair, sucks him hard and fast, not relenting when Din scrabbles at his hair, at his shoulders, overwhelmed. He shoves Din’s legs wider apart, pulls his hips to the edge of the chair. One of his fingers, still damp with Din’s spit, works its way between his buttocks. 

Din moans at the first finger. At the second, his short nails find Cobb’s scalp, his head thrown back, his hips moving helplessly—forward into Cobb’s mouth, back against his hand, until he comes down Cobb’s throat with a cry.

Cobb lays his face against Din’s thigh, one of Din’s hands lax in his hair as they both wait for their breathing to slow.

Din’s fingers find a strand of his hair and tug at it idly. Cobb closes his eyes. That loneliness of his, so long unnoticed, is a great yawning ache now, full of Din’s eyes and Din’s hands. How long before it’s empty again? How long before he has to pretend he doesn’t miss this?

“You okay?” Din asks above him, an echo of Cobb’s earlier concern.

Cobb looks up at him. Smiles. “Just fine,” he lies.

§

They each take a turn in the ‘fresher, and then Cobb sits down to tinker with an old condensation unit while Din polishes his armor.

Outside, the wind gusts harder, and there is a thin covering of sand on Cobb’s kitchen floor now. 

“I promised,” Din says, apropos of nothing, “to help retake Mandalore.”

Cobb pauses his work, looking up at him.

“I have a friend in Mos Eisley readying a ship for me. When it’s done, that’s where I’m headed.”

“And when will that be?”

Din shrugs. “A few days, I think. A week at the outside.”

Cobb resumes what he was doing, grunting noncommittally. It’s nothing he didn’t expect, though his gut still clenches to hear it.

Din watches him, clearly waiting for some further response, but Cobb avoids his gaze.

He finishes his task, sets down his tool. “Hungry?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll get dinner.”

Din opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but he closes it again and lets Cobb go.

§

When Cobb retires to his bedroom, Din follows him, lingering in the doorway, uncertain.

Cobb casts a look at him as he pulls his shirt over his head. “Come on, then,” he says.

Still, Din hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shifts his weight. “I’m not...good at this.”

Cobb pauses in the middle of unbuttoning his pants. “Good at what?”

“I don’t know,” Din says, “how to tell what you’re thinking.”

Cobb laughs, lets his pants fall to the ground, and steps out of them. “Well lucky for you, I guess. I don’t think much.”

“Don’t.”

It brings Cobb up short, and he stops again, halfway to his bed already. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like it doesn’t matter what you want.”

Another soft laugh. “Thought you weren’t good at knowing other people’s thoughts.”

“Cobb…”

“You coming to bed or not?”

Din sighs. Nods.

“Then get that suit off and come lay with me.”

He does as he’s told. 

When they are both down to their smalls and curled under the blankets, Cobb pulls him close. 

Din says nothing, though Cobb can see him studying his face in the dark.

“It won’t change anything,” Cobb says at last. “That’s all it is.” 

“You can want things. Even if it doesn’t change anything.”

“Hell, Din, I want plenty,” Cobb lets one of his hands run down Din’s side beneath the covers. “Sometimes I think all I am is want.”

Din doesn’t answer, just rests his head against Cobb’s chest. They fall asleep to the sound of the wind.

§


	5. Chapter 5

The storm blows out the next day in the late morning. Cobb dresses and goes out to inspect the town for any damage. Din accompanies him again. 

A downed fence at Ona’s place, one speeder left uncovered and in need of dismantling for cleaning, a few stray livestock. Overall, the town’s come off easy, but it still takes most of the daylight to get things back in order. 

They return to Cobb’s house just as the suns are painting the sky purple-red with the last of their light. Din pauses before entering, looking out at the horizon, the setting suns reflected in his helmet.

“What is it?” Cobb asks.

“Nothing,” says Din. “It’s...pretty.”

Cobb smiles at this. “You forget to notice the pretty sometimes, what with how hard it’s trying to kill you.”

Din turns back to him, and backlit now he is only an impassive silhouette. “I get that,” he says, and follows Cobb inside.

§

They eat in silence. After dinner, Din sits on one of the cushioned benches to remove his boots and armor. Cobb watches him for a moment, then moves to help, kneeling in front of Din to unbuckle his shin guard. Din allows it without protest.

When they are finished, Cobb slides his fingers over the skin of Din’s bare ankle, up under the hem of his pants, following the line of his leg to cup the muscle of his calf, just relishing the feel of him.

“You ever think,” Din says, “about hiring a deputy?”

“You looking for a job? King business not exciting enough for you?”

Din sets his foot on Cobb’s thigh, runs it upward just enough to make Cobb’s eyebrows climb.

“Was thinking more about asking for some help with that king business.”

“You mean…”

“Come with me.”

Cobb frowns, his thoughts grinding to a halt, his fingers pausing briefly before resuming their massaging of Din’s calf. He makes himself take a breath.

“I got responsibilities here,” he says, not looking at Din. “I’m all they’ve got.”

“You have peace with the Tuskens—”

“Right up until someone has one too many whiskeys and—”

“—and the dragon is gone,” Din overrides his interruption. “Maybe it doesn’t happen right away. Maybe you train someone up. Good for the town to know you aren’t the only thing keeping it afloat.”

Cobb’s eyes narrow, and he smiles cagily. “Oh, good for the town, is it?”

“And...good for me.”

That wipes the smile from Cobb’s face. He takes his hand out of Din’s pant leg, rests it on his foot instead. An unfamiliar anxiety is rising in his belly, oily and uncomfortable. “I’ve never left this planet,” he says, looking at the ground.

Din is silent for a moment. When he speaks, it’s in that strange, halting way of his. “When I met the kid, I’d never been anything but a bounty hunter. He made me want to be something else. And I had to...compromise. Everything.” He looks at Cobb.

“Those compromises hurt. They still hurt. But I would do them again. Because he’s...important to me.” 

The pause between Din’s words is brief and momentous, and it’s not lost on Cobb, what Din isn’t quite saying.

He abandons Din’s foot, leaving it in his lap as he leans forward against Din’s knees. His gut is writhing, and he can’t sort through what is terror and what is hope. 

“Sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re asking.” He means for it to sound flippant, teasing. Instead it sounds like cowardice.

“I think slow, Cobb. Doesn’t mean I don’t think.” Din’s wry tone is at odds with the uncertainty in his eyes. “I’m asking if...if it would be worth it to you. To compromise, even if it hurt.”

Cobb has to swallow against the slithering fear in the pit of his stomach. His pulse is fast and loud in his ears, and he’s wondering when he lost the upper hand here. First he can’t get Din to tell him what he wants, and now he can’t get him to _stop_.

He can’t. How can he leave Mos Pelgo? They need him. He’s important here, maybe more important than he’s ever been his whole life. He matters, here. 

But out there? He thinks about the dizzying expanse of stars wheeling over them right now. Out there, who the hell is he? 

“You don’t have to answer right now,” Din says, and his thumb strokes Cobb’s brow where it has creased in worry. 

“What happens,” Cobb says slowly, “if my answer is no? I ain’t saying it is, I just...what would happen?”

The flash of hurt in Din’s eyes is answer enough, and Cobb regrets the question as soon as it’s out, but it’s too late to call it back now.

Din schools his features admirably for someone with so little practice. “Then I go. I do what I promised. I come back someday, if I can. If...you want me to.”

 _If I want you to?_ Cobb could almost laugh at the absurdity of Din’s doubt, if he didn’t know full well he’s the one who put it there. 

Out loud he says, “You’d do that? Keep coming back here?”

Din’s foot moves in Cobb’s lap, pressing against his groin until Cobb sucks in a sharp breath. “Yes,” he says simply.

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Because you don’t want to say it?”

“Because _you_ don’t want to say it.”

 _But if I say it, I’m lost._

Except who is he kidding, really? He was right when he said that saying it wouldn’t change anything. But _not_ saying it isn’t changing anything either. He can’t go back to comfortable solitude. Not when he knows he can have this.

Kriff. He can _have it_. 

It hits him now, only now, that this is what Din is saying. That whatever his choice, this doesn’t have to end when Din leaves. 

The realization is hot and bright in his chest, and it doesn’t banish the fear, but it sure sends it crawling into the shadows. 

“Din.” Cobb lets his hands run up Din’s thighs, cants his hips against the pressure of Din’s foot. “Can we…?”

Din closes his eyes briefly as Cobb’s fingers work their way into the crease between his belly and thigh. “Cobb—”

“I’m not ignoring you. Not...putting you off, or whatever.” Cobb lets his hands slide downward, his thumbs brushing the inside of Din’s thighs. “I’m answering you. Best I know how.”

He lets his thumbs dig in a little, feels the tension in Din’s legs as he anticipates where that touch is heading. “Just...let me. Please.”

Din looks down at him, perfectly still in spite of the pulse Cobb can feel racing beneath his fingers. “Yes,” he says at last, and moves his foot, making Cobb gasp again.

Cobb sits up on his knees, kisses him hard and deep, and Din leans into it. His mouth is pliant and willing under Cobb’s, but when they pull apart, Cobb can see the lingering question in his eyes. He doesn’t know how to quell it yet, his starved and weary heart so suddenly full that he has no language for it.

“Let me do this right,” Cobb says. “Come to bed.”

Din nods, still looking unsure, but when Cobb stands and pulls him to his feet, he follows without arguing.

§

Din’s face is buried in the mattress, muffling the noises he makes. Cobb might regret that, but it’s a fair consolation to watch his hips rolling shamelessly, ineffectually as Cobb’s tongue and lips and fingers work him open.

Cobb licks over him, into him, and Din’s muscles flutter around the intrusion, and hell if it isn’t just about the best thing Cobb’s ever felt.

A keening sound starts low in Din’s throat as he tries to rut against the mattress, his cock seeking friction. Behind him, Cobb chuckles. “I know, sweetheart,” he says, and spreads one hand over the flat of Din’s back. “I know.”

Cobb lets one finger drag across the ring of muscle, and Din shudders beneath him. Cobb pulls away, nudging at his hip.

“Over. I want to see you.”

Din obeys without hesitation, rolling onto his back, his legs wrapping around Cobb and pulling him nearer. Cobb lets him, leaning over him to kiss his chest, to lay the flat of his tongue across one nipple, to set his teeth against the muscle there. Din’s nails dig into Cobb’s skin as he thrusts up against him. Their cocks slide together, and a punch of breath escapes from Cobb’s mouth.

Cobb moves one hand to steady himself, hooks his other under Din’s leg to better angle his hips, lets him feel him waiting there. He looks up at Din.

Din says nothing, but tightens his free leg around Cobb’s hip, the pressure granting him permission. Cobb pushes forward, agonizingly slow.

“Hell,” Cobb says, his head dropping, his eyes squeezed shut. He pulls out, thrusts in again, bites back another curse. He can feel Din’s held breath, feel the way he shifts, adjusting to the stretch. Cobb takes his time, pushing in and out, letting Din feel the drag of it. When he’s finally buried in him, he lets out a sigh of impossible relief, leaning over Din’s chest to lick up his neck, to kiss his jaw.

“Good?” he asks.

Din opens his mouth to answer, but no words come out. Instead, he squeezes with his legs, puts his hands in Cobb’s hair, kisses him hard. Cobb makes a broken little noise, overcome with it, with _him_.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Cobb mumbles against his mouth, rolling his hips a little, aware that he’s babbling and unable to stop himself. “You’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”

“Please,” Din says, and Cobb doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but he knows he wants to give it. 

Cobb pushes into him again, long and deep, and they both tremble with it. He turns his face into Din’s neck, and Din holds him there. 

They move together, Din rolling his hips to meet Cobb’s thrusts, the room slowly turning humid with sweat and heat. Even as they lose themselves in it, Cobb can’t keep his hands from Din, and he lets it be too tender, lets it give him away, lets his fingers say what his mouth can’t. 

Cobb thrusts faster now, his breathing erratic, and Din reaches a hand between them to touch himself. Cobb chokes back a moan at this, gaze raking over him. “ _Shit_ , yeah. Please, sweetheart.”

The endearment sends a shiver through Din, making him clench, and Cobb’s hips jerk and _oh_ —it’s so good, so good so _much_. 

“I’m close,” he pants. His fingers dig into Din’s thigh, and Din groans beneath him, his hand against the back of Cobb’s head, his lips against Cobb’s throat.

It doesn’t take long. Cobb thrusts deep and holds there, comes so hard he forgets to breathe, half aware that Din is arching up into him, his hand flying over his own cock now.

He comes back to himself in time to hear Din cry out, to see him spilling over his fingers and onto his stomach.

“Kriff,” Cobb says weakly, leaning down to press his mouth to Din’s temple, to his shoulder.

Din slows his hips, stills, trembles as he wrings out the last of his orgasm. He shifts, and Cobb slips from him, his oversensitive nerves crying out at the sensation. Cobb winces a little and rolls onto his side.

They lie this way for a long moment, catching their breath. Din’s fingers twitch, seeking Cobb, finding his arm and resting there. Din studies his face, his gaze soft and searching.

“What?” Cobb asks. 

“Just...looking.” 

“Didn’t rightly figure you for a romantic,” Cobb chuckles, but something on Din’s face makes the laugh collapse in on itself. “Didn’t rightly figure on you at all, come to that.”

Din is still. Silent. Faint starlight from the window catches in his dark eyes, and Cobb wonders how many years those eyes spent looking at the world through a T-visor. How much courage would it have taken to remove that helmet? How hard did he have to love to sacrifice this thing that was a part of him?

His own coward’s heart beats wild in his chest, hard edges baked in the suns of an unforgiving planet, and he wants he wants he _wants_ to burn it out, to let it grow back new and soft and brave.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says suddenly, and the night sky in Din’s eyes widens in surprise. Cobb’s mouth, now it has the shape of the words, spills them out like water onto parched sand. “You told me I didn’t want to say it, and you’re right. So I’m saying it. I’ve been lonely all my life, Din. A few days with you, and...I don’t know how to go back.”

“Then don’t.” Din reaches down for Cobb’s hand, brings it to his mouth, and kisses his palm.

“That easy, huh?”

“No.” Din turns Cobb’s hands so he can thread their fingers together. Cobb’s heart shivers, crumbles a little at the sight of it. “Not easy,” Din says.

Cobb leans in to kiss him. “Worth it, though, maybe.”

Cobb can feel Din’s smile against his lips, and then Din is surging closer, deepening the kiss, their clasped hands trapped between their chests. Cobb’s heart trembles and shatters beneath the pressure. In the pile of dust and grit it leaves behind, Cobb feels new roots taking hold, something green and growing, reaching upward.

§


	6. Chapter 6

“Got a favor to ask,” Cobb says the next morning over breakfast.

Din raises an eyebrow, chewing.

“You still owe me some lessons on Tusken signs. Was thinking I might organize a few people in town who want to learn. Have you teach them all.”

Din gives him a considering look. “I could do that.” 

Cobb can tell from his face that he wants to ask why, but he doesn’t ask, and Cobb doesn’t offer.

“Good,” Cobb says. “Might keep you busy for the rest of your time here. That, and another project I got in mind.”

“What project is that?”

Cobb waves the question away. “Got to ask some questions around town first.”

Din takes a drink of his caf and returns to his food, feigning indifference. At least, Cobb thinks he’s feigning. He still can’t quite believe how impassive Din can be when he chooses.

They finish their meal, and Cobb heads into town without him, promising to return before midday.

He walks to the edge of town, to a small house with a newly repaired fence. In the dust in front of the house, a couple of kids are playing. The older of the two, a boy around ten, touches his forehead respectfully to Cobb, and Cobb returns the gesture. 

He knocks on the door, and it opens promptly. Ona leans on her doorframe.

“Marshal,” she says, and nods a greeting to him.

Cobb smiles. “Ona. Got something to run by you, if you have the time.”

She looks at the children, still playing contentedly, then steps back to give Cobb room.

“Come in, then. No sense letting more dust in the house than I can help.”

Cobb taps his boots on the threshold to remove any excess sand from them and ducks into the cool of the house.

§

When the suns are high in the sky, Cobb returns to collect Din and leads him a little way outside of town, to an outcrop of rock. Ona and the bartender, Weequay, are waiting for them. They each carry a blaster rifle.

Din glances from Cobb to them and back again, helmet winking the sunlight. 

“We hunting something?”

Cobb just grins. “Weequay was with us at the dragon, so you’ve seen him fight. He’s tough and he ain’t afraid of much, but he could use some help with his aim.”

Weequay looks aggrieved at this, but when Cobb raises his eyebrows at him, he lowers his eyes.

“Ona, you haven’t seen in action. She could shave the hair off a ronto’s chin with that rifle—her daddy was with the rebellion, and he taught her how to defend her property and feed her family when times were slim. She’s never trained for close combat, though.”

Ona gives Din a hard smile, just the faintest hint of pride swelling her chest as Cobb talks about her skill.

Din still says nothing, though the tilt of his head suggests he’s eager for Cobb to get to his point.

“I want you to see what they can do,” Cobb says. “Give them some pointers.”

“You expecting more trouble?”

Cobb folds his arms over his chest. He squints up at the sky. “Was thinking,” he says, “I might take some time off pretty soon here.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Din shift his weight, like he’s going to step toward him—but he glances at Ona and Weequay and stills again. Cobb gives him a sidelong smile.

“Feel a lot better about it if I knew the town was in good hands.”

Another beat, and even with the helmet on Cobb can see Din searching for the right words. “So...deputies?” Din says at last.

“Something like that,” Cobb says, too soft and too sweet, and hell if he cares.

Din stares at him another moment, then visibly shakes himself and turns to the others.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

§

They train until sunsdown. Even Din is impressed with Ona’s sharpshooting, which rivals Cobb’s own, and she picks up the hand-to-hand techniques he shows her with few repetitions.

Weequay is a slower learner, but he knows how to use his bulk to his advantage, and by the end of the day, he’s managed to compensate for the right-hand pull of his old rifle pretty nicely.

Ona and Weequay head back to town as evening falls, to see to the kids and the bar respectively. Ona gives Cobb a knowing little smile as she passes him, and he gives her an admonishing look in return—only slightly spoiled by the color in his cheeks.

 _He’s a good one, that Mando of yours_ , she’d said to him in her home that morning.

 _Not mine_ , he’d corrected, embarrassed—but her phrasing had lit him up inside, and he could tell from her face that she’d noticed.

 _Uh-huh_. She’d had that same smile then too. _Well, whoever’s he is, half the town’s been wondering if something like this wasn’t coming. You’ll be missed, Marshal, no doubt about that. But if you’re looking for a reason to get off this dustball, you could do a lot worse than him._

Cobb had blushed furiously, but Ona had only gone outside to call her kids in for lunch.

Now, as Ona and Weequay disappear from sight, Cobb leans against the red rock, stretching his legs out on the sand, enjoying the last of the day’s warmth. Din lowers himself to sit beside him, and for a long time they are silent, watching the stars come out overhead.

“So,” Din says eventually. 

Cobb, still lolling against the rock, turns his head to look at him. The purple-black of the encroaching night and its myriad stars are reflected across the face of his helmet, a whole galaxy peering out from behind the dissolving white of the desert sky.

“So,” Cobb agrees. 

“This is the plan for the rest of the week?”

“Or however long we have left. Train the ones who can be trained. Teach ‘em some of the signs so things with the Tuskens don’t go south on our account.”

Another comfortable silence falls. The first sun disappears below the horizon, the second hard on its heels.

“Never been anywhere except this desert,” Cobb finally says. “I’ve been a kid here, a soldier, a slave. A Marshal. Everything I’ve ever been—right here.”

“Nothing wrong with belonging somewhere,” Din says. “Not everyone gets that.”

“Maybe.”

“Cobb.” One of Din’s gloved hands brushes against Cobb’s thigh. “You don’t have to—”

“Hush,” Cobb interrupts, and lays his hand over Din’s. “I do. Not because of you, although damn if that ain’t enough. Because of me. I stay here the rest of my life, this is all I am. I’ve been a kid and a soldier and a slave and a Marshal, and I got nothing else to be. Not here.

“Out there,” he nods up at the sky, “who knows? I can be something, maybe. Something different.”

“Something good,” Din says, and his hand tightens on Cobb’s thigh.

Cobb feels the warmth of desire kindling in his gut. He lets one hand trace the bottom edge of Din’s helmet.

“We alone enough out here for you to take this off?” he asks, and Din’s head cocks curiously to one side. 

“Why?”

“I’m happy to work around it if not.”

“What are you—?”

Din’s question cuts off as Cobb climbs into his lap, his hands resting on either side of the helmet. 

Cobb leans in to rest his forehead against the cool metal, and Din makes an odd noise, difficult to decipher through his modulator.

“This okay?” Cobb asks.

“Yeah, it’s…” He clears his throat, and Cobb hears just a hint of a rough edge to it. “It’s good.”

“Good.” Cobb lets his thumbs find the bare skin of Din’s neck where it’s buried under his cowl. Din gathers him close.

The sand shifts beneath them, and Cobb’s smile turns rueful. “I am unhappy to report that this sand may not be conducive to what I have in mind.”

“And that is?”

“Well,” he says, and lets his thumbs crawl upward, find the hard line of Din’s jaw under the helmet. “I got a half a mind to let you have me right here under the stars.”

A full-body shiver rips through Din, and Cobb chuckles. “A little worried about grit in unspeakable places though.”

Din’s head turns sharply into Cobb’s touch, like he’s forgotten he can’t get his mouth on him with the helmet on. He makes a frustrated noise. 

“Cobb,” he says, his tone half annoyed and half desperate.

“You want me to stop?”

Din raises one hand, hooks it under his helmet, and pulls it off in one fluid motion. His hair and eyes are equally wild underneath, and Cobb is touching his face even before the helmet is fully off.

Din grips him tightly, pulls him closer, and kisses him. “I want you to take me home,” he says.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Cobb murmurs, and kisses him again. “I can do that.”

The last of the light leeches from the sky, the desert shifting and changing with the coming night. Burrowing things emerge from the sand, going about their business under cover of dark, plants uncurl waxen leaves to gather moisture from the cooling air, reptiles crawl from their hiding places to lay flat on the rocks, drinking in their fading heat. After so many years, Cobb feels the shift in his bones, the slow unfurling into something new, the long exhale of the desert at the end of the day. 

And for the first time—with Din under his hands, his thighs, his lips—he feels like he can exhale with it, turn his back on the twin suns and gaze out at the stars instead.

§

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Songs I listened to on repeat while writing this: “if I Go, I’m Goin’” by Gregory Alan Isakov, “Mercury” by Sleeping At Last, “Through the Valley” by Shawn James, “Dimming of the Day” (cover) by Alison Krauss and Union Station


End file.
